it gets a little easier when you've done it once
by Victoria Camrince
Summary: "You heard 'bout that kidnapping on Kipperin street?" "Who hasn't? Only talk going 'round these days." "Y'know they didn't talk about it in the paper? The spiral mark found in the alley? Saw one of them ragamuffins gettin' paid to scrub it off the sidewalk 'fore anyone tried to look for it." (Prohibition Era AU)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Nina Vale (jaynefray) and emyy250 once wrote about film noir!Dante doing investigative work on Tumblr, and since I am a sucker for anything Prohibition era-related, I (predictably) wrote about it instead of like, focusing on my other odd-number drafts sitting in my folder.

This one is set in New Orleans a few days before Mardi Gras, with guns instead of magic. For more information on the prompt ( search/club-singer-zhalia). Slang is used gratuitously, and I've written the meanings out on the bottom of the fic, if anybody's confused. Please review, they water my crops and fuel my life. Title is from Lana del Rey's "Kinda Outta Luck".

* * *

The streets are glowing, pulsating with an ethereal light as the cobblestone pavements reflect the gas streetlights, complementing the picturesque state of the area. Sitting at the turn of the decade, New Orleans blooms like a fresh-faced deb at her first ball, all jeweled lights and colors popping out as Mardi Gras approaches with each ticking second. Her rich culture oozes out of every alley and every stone terraced rooftop, the sounds of jazz ever-present throughout the city. Even the light drizzle- usually irritating, the humidity bringing on a bout of colds and not enough to fully water any plants- only serves to make the city more dreamlike, surrounded by a haze.

Dante Vale can still smell the petrichor, wafting up and through the half-opened window in his investigator's office. Escaping here in his sanctuary, New Orleans sitting outside looking pretty and the comfort of his cushioned leather seat proved to be doing wonders for his growing headache, Montehue's ever-booming laughter now muffled by the closed doors. The celebration downstairs is absolutely roaring and very much enjoyable, and Dante would've kept on mingling along with the rest of them if Metz hadn't reminded him of the files on his desk concerning the latest kills and reports from around the city, murders and missing warrants and- as it seems- another mob working to get into the bootleg business.

New Orleans is a beautiful city. _Beauty always comes with a catch, Dante_ , Metz offhandedly said to him when he brought him to the Americas, _always a double-edged blade_. _Hers just happen to be terror._

Dante hadn't believed it back when he was a boy of barely-ten, when the _S.S. Antique_ had arrived at the port at night and he ran the length of the ship to see the lights of the city slowly winking at the bay. Metz's hand was on his shoulder, steadying him, and the promise of a fresh start fizzes at the tip of his tongue. The world was different decades ago.

Dante can understand the need for liquor, especially since the krewe in charge of this year's parade is rolling in dough and known for their rather extravagant celebrations. It'd be a downright shame if it would be anything short of a bacchanal revelry. Ah, but the things people will do just to avoid being sober…

Thumbing through the thick stack, he pulls out the first manila folder with a red seal and rips it. The piece of paper inside is blank, thankfully, because just as soon as he pulls it out the door to his office opens and a spiffy-looking dame lets herself in, surreptitiously locking the door behind her.

"Excuse me Miss, but if you're looking for the bathroom it's two doors down the hall," he drawls, hand immediately covering the red-sealed folders as the dame turns around and levels a glare at him.

"Pipe down, will you, my brother might hear," Sophie Casterwill says, British accent surprisingly retained even through five years of living in New Orleans. Her cropped strawberry-blonde hair bobs as she casts a wary glance at the door. "I'm not supposed to be out of the house for anything."

Dante assesses her with a cool stare as she takes a seat and tucks an ankle behind the other, the princess always finding her throne. She lifts her chin and matches his stare, so unlike the fifteen year-old girl who once had a crush on him and made it clear to everyone, to the shock of her brother.

The girl's retained her nerve, daring to cut her hair like the flappers in this country, given that the Casterwills had a reputation for being traditionalistic despite the money and the lavish parties. Though it might be a statement of sorts, given that her brother is this year's King of the Mardi Gras.

As for escaping the compound, going away from her bodyguard before her ball, in order to go to a private investigator…

"What do you want, kid?" he asks. Tight-lipped, and she's absentmindedly twisting a red-jeweled ring on her left hand.

"I need you to find someone for me." _Of course._ He's had his share of parents coming in his office and asking him to find a suitable young man to accompany their debutantes before (and a lot of debutantes that asked him to come instead), but Sophie looks too worried for it to be something as trivial as that.

Dante thinks hard about the scotch hidden in his desk, and questions his decision to save it for an occasion. "I'm not the one for the missing person's case." He gestures to the pile of reports. "As you can see, I'm busy."

"I'll pay you," she says, predictably. "Triple your salary even, or whatever your usual pay is."

"All the money in the world couldn't write off these reports, and I don't have time for beating gums. There are other dicks in this ci-"

"They won't find him," she cuts him off. "Trust me, I'd know."

"You could try."

"They _won't_ ," she insists. Her hands have stopped their fidgeting and are now clenched, bone-white in her lap. "This person, they, they kidnapped him, and left a… _ghastly_ calling card as they did. His family's the one asking the lams about the situation but I know that they don't have the resources for this."

"Then you should give them yours," he replies. "Might speed up the investigation a little faster, and I really don't have the time-"

"Lok Lambert's been kidnapped by the Blood spirals yesterday morning in his office because he found out about their speakeasy to be opened during the parade and was caught."

Dante shuts up.

She takes a deep breath and straightens in her chair. "I don't know where he is and I fear the worst, and they wouldn't have found him had I not said anything about the matter." Her hands clench together, the ring visibly digging into her hand. "So tell me, Dante Vale," she holds eye contact steadily in contrast to her watery voice, "will you use all of your contacts at your disposal to find him, and bring him home safely?"

He looks at her mad-bright stare, the stack of coded reports, hears the hustle-and-bustle of New Orleans outside his window, and the raucous party downstairs. Takes in her desperate state and wonders about her real motives about Ethan Lambert's kid, if it's really worth finding out. Thinks about the scotch in his desk.

Dante nods.

* * *

If he was appalled at the poorly-written official statements the police have released about Lok Lambert's disappearance, he was in no way prepared for the unofficial ones.

In the published statement, the authorities confirm that Lambert was kidnapped as he went home after his shift at the office, and that they are sure the boy might still be alive, although the family has confirmed that they weren't given any ransom notes. The statement also had a paragraph from the editors promising to help and stand by the family in these times, as Dante had found out that the nineteen-year old boy was well-liked in the small publishing company despite (or maybe because of) his age and enthusiasm.

The unofficial reports, however, make it clear that the statement was released in order to calm down the family and the journalists, as the police have gossiped during their bull sessions that they saw the infamous Blood spiral mark in the alley where the boy was presumed missing, and have put the case in the hands of the federal agents. Smart move, but calling in the feds from several states over would mean that the investigation would be put on hold for weeks without anyone allowed to take up the case. It's no wonder Sophie was as desperate as she were.

The officials considered the situation a lost cause, now. Might as well have marked the boy down as 'dead' and closed their case, for all they cared.

* * *

"Knock 'em down!"

The boxer jogs around the ring while his opponent watches him with a wary eye. He feints a small punch to his opponent's left flank before going in for an uppercut, sending the opponent staggering on the floor.

The bell rings as hoots and Bronx cheers resounded throughout the cramped gym they call a boxer's ring. Money exchanges hands, and a man pats the boxer on his back as he goes under the ropes and steps out of the ring.

"Y'know, I didn't really believe in you when you said you wanted to punch people for a living," he says, throwing the boxer a towel that he catches in mid-air. "'Too simple,' I said, 'not for someone of Kilthane's caliber!' Were my exact words, I think."

Kilthane laughs, pulling the towel around his neck. "Can't say I didn't follow my dreams, now can you, Mickey?"

"I don't go by that no more," Mickey grins at his former colleague, baring his teeth like a shark's, the smile falling flat due to the man's deformed kisser, a souvenir from a mission gone horribly right. "I'd say it's good to see you, but-"

"Harley Kings ain't a pretty sight for anybody, right?" Kilthane asks, jokingly.

"Yeah, sure." Mickey's smile turns brittle at the edges, and he falls into step with Kilthane. "Is this what ex-hired guns do now, jump from one illegal activity to another?"

"Seems like it, from the looks of you and me." He stops to wave as his opponent waves to him from across the room and cups his bandaged hands to his mouth. "Good game, you club-footed sack of shit!" he shouts.

"I'll send your sorry ass to the hospital another time, 'Thane!" the guy shouts back, threat softened by the good-natured smile on his bloody face.

" _Sure_ , C," Kilthane drawls, "I'll hold you to that." He turns to Mickey whose brows were furrowed as they continue on walking. "That's Caliban, rookie with plenty of potential. Great technique, but he ain't got a single pragmatic bone in his body."

"Are y'all buddy-buddy with your opponents now? Might say, I'm getting jealous. You just get all the friends." Mickey fake pouts as they enter the locker rooms. Kilthane puts his head under the sink and turns on the tap, washing off the blood from his face and wiping himself with the towel. Mickey lights up a cig, ignorant of the 'no smoking' sign on the door.

He blows smoke circle after smoke circle as Kilthane walks over to a bench and drains his water bottle. "Why, the other Harley Kings not up to your standards?" he holds out the bottle to Mickey, who shakes his head.

"Us loan sharks don't get along too well with our own kind."

"It's not too late to join Gigi and the others, you know."

"The big cheese might not appreciate me going back to my former employer," Mickey drawls, the smoke rolling over his weirdly-shaped mouth. "'sides, isn't her place protected by that midnight murderer? Think I might be on _his_ hitlist."

"It's midnight _killer_ , Micks, and I didn't peg you for one believing in ghost stories." Kilthane holds Mickey's stare, trying not to blink under the loan shark's unsettling gaze.

The locker metal is cool on his back. "What the fuck do you really want Micks?"

"What I want to talk about isn't one reserved for sweat-filled locker rooms. Come with me, take you out to a nicer pig sty."

Kilthane lets himself be dragged to the watering hole across the street. An unnamed place, just the right amount of secrecy and full of customers as was the usual in these sober times, but as soon as he approaches the counter Mickey pulls him to the back corner of the room, dark enough that they wouldn't be seen, and where they both had a good view of all the people in the room.

A bucket of beer is slid across the table, and both men took a bottle, downing the drink in one sitting. Kilthane warily eyes his companion, who has never liked beer and proven himself time and time again to be the lightest lightweight to ever lightweight.

"You heard 'bout that kidnapping on Kipperin street?" Mickey asks, voice sliding into slang and local accent.

Kilthane raises his eyebrows and does the same, raising his voice an octave for added effect. "Who hasn't? Only talk goin' round these days."

"Poor kid. Knew his mother from the bakery downtown. Sweetest dame I ever met, and that includes Marvin's wife!"

"Only you consider Marvin's wife sweet." Whoever the fuck Marvin was, anyway. Kilthane opens another bottle and takes a sip. "Shows what you know."

Mickey rolls the neck of his dead soldier.

"What I know 'bout a lotta things would get us pinched by them lams. Y'know they didn't talk about it in the paper? The spiral mark found in the alley? Saw one of them ragamuffins gettin' paid to scrub it off the sidewalk 'fore anyone tried to look for it."

Kilthane's eyes widen at his former colleague's reckless namedropping of his current employers. " _Dry up_." He looks around to make sure no one is listening in. "Shit. Man, you gotta be kidding 'bout that. The spirals targeting a kid," he whistles. "Heavy stuff."

Mickey's eyes are bright beneath dark circles. "Methinks the sister might be why. Always suspected that Jane to be a moll, with the long gams on that pretty thing…" His drawl is a stark contrast to his fidgeting hands tearing the table napkin to pieces.

"His sister ain't a dumb Dora. Whole family's too smart and honest to get tangled up with the lowlife." Kilthane says and means every word, having done the necessary research. "Though I heard the kid's sweet on that British princess, might be it."

"Thought the Casterwills weren't royalty."

"Her brother's the King of the Mardi Gras, you sap. And they're rich, might as well be."

"Still, the paper said 'no ransom' didn't it? Might not be the money the spirals lookin' for. Or, they might not even be the ones to kidnap the kid." Mickey takes another bottle and brushes two fingers under his chin- a code, from way back. Kilthane almost chokes on his stale beer.

 _No bullshit._

Mickey might just be a loan shark, but bull runs around mobs pretty damn quick, and if he says that the spirals didn't do it…

He discretely rolls out a pen and paper from his pocket and writes hastily as Kilthane talks and scans their surroundings. "The paper's sellin' a damn lie. We know there's a spiral mark-"

"Yeah, hidden, remember?" Mickey cuts off, sliding the paper underneath the table and into Kilthane's hand. Looking as disinterested as possible, he reads the scrawl in the dim light.

"Since when did the spirals try to hide their stuff?" Mickey continues.

 _The boy found out about the op. They were going to_ _take him for a ride_ _, but the group got intercepted. No boy, no spirals, no trace. And I think you know what happened. Don't do anything stupid while this isn't settled._

"Nah, methinks this might be the work of them bounty hunters from a'fore-"

"The organization's been 'bout as active as a dead fish these past few years." Kilthane firmly cuts off, rubbing the paper over the table and on the bottle's condensation, messing up the writing. "They ain't makin' a comeback, and if they did it sure as hell wouldn't be this low-profile."

* * *

After a lengthy conversation with Metz, exhausting every single detail from the reports and rehashing the added problem of Sophie Casterwill's request, Dante feels like getting drunk off his ass, damn the Prohibition laws.

But since he has a reputation to keep, even in the comforts of the foundation's not-so-legal speakeasy, he refrains from jumping across the counter and taking all the hooch for himself. The slamming sound of the folders on the counter is a weak comfort.

"Well aren't you in a bad mood."

Dante looks up to see Lin Storm, long-haired still, setting aside the shaker and taking a bottle of scotch, pouring three fingers in a glass that he gladly accepts. "That obvious?" Dante asks.

"No, I'm just really skilled at reading people," Lin replies, flatly. She wipes the table, abandoning the shaker which Dante suspects contains one of her deadly experimental cocktails. "What's eating you, baby grand? Did the big cheese try 'ta set you up again?"

"I don't need to add a blind date to my schedule."

"But you _do_ need to add a blind date to your schedule." Lin pulls her hand back from the counter, narrowly missing Dante cuffing them with a folder. "And I'm not the only one to think so."

"I'm going to write you both off my will."

"Like I'd want your useless trinkets. Montehue would bury them in a mountain somewhere, get rid of it all."

Dante points an accusing finger. "Hey, you don't get to mistreat my amulets like that, even hypothetically."

"Then stop hiding my weapons, asshole," says Lin.

He pointedly stays silent and ignores Lin making faces to open a folder, skims the contents, closes it again. He downs the scotch in one go, the liquid burning his throat and making his eyes watery- the way only bootleg alcohol can.

Lin whistles. "That bad?"

"It's all the usual hooey. Dead in a ditch, run off with money, probably lost his way around the Bible belt. None of it adds up with the accounts of the kid's personality- smart kid, always on the up and up, good with directions." He waves an envelope containing copies of well-wishes and lost-and-found posters made by half of downtown New Orleans. "Lambert's less likely to make an enemy too."

Lin slams a cabinet closed, the sound echoing throughout the empty halls of the bar. It was daylight still, and all of the regulars in their company only comes and goes when it's morning. Which is why he deemed it safe even when Lin asked out loud, "You're taking on Lok Lambert's case?"

She looks surprised. "I was asked last night. I've got about three days to finish the job." Sophie hadn't given him a time limit, but he should try to bring the kid back before her deb. He likes to set challenges for himself, and if it means that he'll get to bail out on finding a gift for the girl, then all the better.

Lin clears the bar counter, refills Dante's scotch and pours herself one. She swirls her glass, not taking a sip, glaring at the bottom as though it would reveal all the secrets in the world. "Sandra Lambert asked for help in finding him. High priority of course, I should've expected you to take on the case. But that was filed just this morning." She tips her glass in his direction. "Who hired you, Dante?"

Dante raises an eyebrow. "Can you be trusted?"

"Baby grand, I am hurt that you would think otherwise."

"I meant 'trusted not to spill all the details'."

"Now _that_ is just being rude."

He slides an envelope to her, marked _Personal Correspondence_ in red ink. "Don't say anything until you've finished it."

Lin takes out a sheet of paper and sniffs it. "Rose-scented?" she asks. Dante nods.

Silent seconds pass as Lin reads, the only sounds in the empty juice joint the shuffling of Dante's folders as he re-arranges them. He looks up and takes a sip to stop himself- from grinning or grimacing, he isn't sure.

Lin's expression is comical- eyes wide, mouth slightly hanging- and Dante would have laughed had he not known what the exact contents of the letter were. Sophie Casterwill had nerves of steel, of course, but he didn't expect something so… _scandalous_ as that. Or that Lok Lambert would obliviously respond in kind.

Ah, young love. Wonders will never cease.

Folding the paper, she puts it back in the folder and downs her shot. "Shit. That's one piece of beeswax I wouldn't poke my nose in. Does her family know?"

"I'm not that sure. Sophie wanted to keep this out of her brother's eye. Santiago refused to say anything, but LeBlanche gave me these." He picks a few letters from the folder and slides them to her, who slides them back.

"I really don't think I should pry."

"I really _do_ think you should pry." Lin glares at him half-heartedly. _That shows she's willing_. Dante goes in for the kill. "Talk to him and I'll stop stealing your weapons as a bonus."

"Can't I just give you one of my contacts?"

"I already have a lot of those," Dante says. "At least Santiago's a reliable source."

"And so is this one."

"If you want an in to the investigation, then you should go and ask him."

He brushes off her glare easily. Her rage at being called out for her ulterior motives would've been effective had Dante not been the subject of it for the last nine years. "Fine, I'll ask him, but," she raises a finger, "I'm sure as hell not going to go through this alone," she says, arms crossing and taking a stance Dante silently refers to as the 'brace yourself, motherfucker' pose, reserved for crashers and particularly insistent males.

Still, Dante can't help but quip- "You won't be alone, you'd have Santiago."

"I meant you, dipshit."

Dante immediately shuts up. Lin goes in for the kill. "I'll go and ask Santiago about everything and anything that you'd need for this investigation, serve as backup whenever you'd need one, and I'll even find a way to erase Mrs. Lambert's request from the mission board without anyone knowing. But," Lin interjects as Dante opens his mouth, "you'll have to use the contact I gave you."

Dante sets down his files and stares at Lin. "That's the catch?"

Lin shrugs. "It's as you said, we both need to add blind dates to our schedules."

" _You_ said that, not me-"

"-and she'd be a really good match for you," Lin steamrolls over Dante's protest and leans back, seemingly satisfied with the terms.

"That's been said before," Dante points out. "Need I remind you of Madea, Paula, Grier, Hannah from the bakery downtown, Otto, and Scarlett that one time-"

"All Montehue's ideas." Lin waves it off. "Which, considering he's liked Scarlett for a while by then it was kind of awkward."

"Yeah well, 'kind of awkward' doesn't begin to describe it," says Dante. Montehue's many subtle attempts at showing off to her almost cost Dante a mission and left his arm sore for days due to arm-wrestling competitions- and this was after he broke everything off.

"I know. Everyone does. You complained about it loudly for weeks before locking them and Tersly in a room." Dante snorts. "Oh come on, Dante, I haven't set you up yet," Lin says. "At least give me this one chance."

"The way you're saying that makes me think that everyone in this juice joint is lining up for a chance to set me up with their friends." Dante pauses. "Or children."

"What I'm getting from all this protest is that you're not really rejecting my attempts to set you up."

"I don't need to add another blind date to my schedule, Lin. Especially with this urgent case."

"Like you can't solve that in half the time."

"I'm not having any of that applesauce."

"Come on, Dante. Just once?"

Lin has never asked for anything from him that required much of his personal preference like this before. Hands clasped, voice pitched higher than normal- this is the Lin Storm equivalent of begging, a rare thing.

Dante spares a glance at the files, sitting inconspicuously on the table. It was a handful even if he used all of his contacts- and boy, was he almost close to using up all of his contacts. And it was true, Lin's judgment is more often than not a solid one…

"Fine." Lin pumps her fist. "But this first meeting is a solid business date only, okay? I'll pass heavy judgment, and if it doesn't work out then you won't do anything about it."

"Oh, don't worry." Lin grins. "She's the cat's meow, alright."

"And I better hear good things about your date with Santiago."

"Can't promise you anything."

"So who is this contact of yours?"

* * *

deb - debutante  
bootleg/hooch - illegal liquor manufactured during the Prohibition  
krewe - organization that puts on a parade or ball for the Carnival season  
flappers - the 'modern woman' of the 1920s, wearing short hair and sporting shorter skirts  
beating gums/beating one's gums - to gossip  
dicks/lams - slang for private investigators/police  
speakeasy/juice joint - illegal clubs that sell bootleg  
bull - gossip  
Bronx cheer - resounding 'boo's  
kisser - mouth/lips  
big cheese - important person, top dog  
dead soldier - empty beer bottles  
moll - a mobster's girlfriend  
long gams - long legs  
sap - idiot  
'take him for a ride' - literally to take the person for a ride to kill him  
baby grand - endearment for a stocky or well-known man  
hooey - nonsense  
on the up and up - honest  
crashers - unwanted guests/visitors


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Hey, I managed to update something! In the process of breaking my hiatus, however, I have also broken curfew, my sleep schedule, and my plans for the weekend. So... whoops. Also check out my (updated) profile, to take a look at the progress of certain fics and some incoming projects coming up!

* * *

1920s slang index

 **lollygagging/lollygagge** r - idle, idle person  
 **hit all the sixes** \- swell, amazing  
 **glad rags** \- dresses, formal wear  
 **high hat** \- snob  
 **razz** \- made fun of  
 **balled up** \- confused  
 **heavy sugar** \- lots of money  
 **breezer** \- convertible  
 **dewdropper** \- unemployed man  
 **torpedo** \- hit man

* * *

 _Lin Storm_ , Dante decides, _is a dead man walking._

The blood-red door of the Mindsight club stands out in stark contrast to the rest of the commercial buildings on King Basilisk Avenue- the jeweled pendant of an otherwise drab necklace of a street.

Dante doesn't want to know what Lin has been doing to get a contact in the darker districts of New Orleans. Instead, he comforts himself with the knowledge that at this same moment, she's probably embarrassing herself in Santiago's presence, and he hers.

He sighs, re-adjusts the dark mask on his face. Following her specific instructions, he knocks three times and discretely taps the loose slat on the door, the one with a small etching of a serpent and a forked tongue.

A slat opens up in the doorway, and a pair of yellow eyes stare at him. "Password?"

"Thoughtspectre," Dante says.

The slat closes, the door opens.

Music greets him as soon as he steps in, unintelligible singing streaming through the curtains. Someone grunts from his left and he turns, seeing the yellow-eyed- and surprisingly heavily-built- man who nods at him and shows him the way.

A soft crooning comes from the in-house stage, too far for Dante to make out anything but a shapely form singing a song whose lyrics he couldn't comprehend. An orchestra around her accompanies her solo, the players just as entranced as those who were listening, moving along to the cadence of her voice.

He goes to the bar, sits down on a stool without any intention of ordering a drink, nodding to the bartender in greeting. The Mindsight club serves alcohol like any other speakeasy, but the joint itself is surprisingly legal and the business booming, despite the bloody history of King Basilisk street gangs and its station in the poor district of New Orleans.

Dante has heard of this fancy joint numerous times, but never has he actually had reason or time enough to step in it. Some of the lollygagging members of the Foundation had partied here before, the rich fat cats from Metz's higher social circles frequented the place since its establishment, and his old flame Grier who never liked the raucous and depraved nature of bars and speakeasies had conceded the Mindsight club's order and appeal of anonymity.

Everyone inside is required to wear a mask, except the staffers who wear veils. Dante himself is wearing the custom-made mask that he wore to Scarlett's deb a few years ago, a dark thing in leather, shaped over the swipe of his cheekbones and angled to resemble an eagle's.

A wise choice, it seems, as he spies a drunken partygoer passing by him wearing a gaudy full-face mask made of brightly colored beads.

"You orderin' anything?" The bartender asks.

"I'm not ready to get drunk yet."

The bartender smiles, although the squint of his eyes makes it look anything but friendly. "Ah, waiting for somebody?"

"A business deal," Dante says. "Got roped into it by a friend of mine."

"Distilled water on the rocks then, for the business man."

"Well aren't you the spirit of generosity."

"Depends on the occasion. Name's Leroy, by the way."

"Dante." He shakes the offered hand.

Leroy nods. "I'll get back to you in a mo'," he says, and goes off to serve a drunk hollering in the other end of the bar. Dante drinks the blessedly cool water and looks back to the stage, trying to make sense of the song.

Unfortunately, it seems that the singer has finished her set, the joyous applause of those still sober ringing around the room. She shimmies down from the stage as Dante tries to make out her features from afar.

"That's our girl." He turns around to see Leroy waving her down. "That songbird there is the pride and joy of the Mindsight club. She doesn't sing very often on stage, so feel blessed that you got here on the rare time she did."

Dante shrugs. "Would if I could've heard her. She was too far away."

"Shame," says a high, lilting voice behind him. "And it was one of my favorite songs, too."

Dante turns around and sees a woman with a veil on her face, her long dark hair pooling around her shoulders in an elaborate updo meant to resemble flapper's bobs. She stands balanced on her feet, even though she was wearing precariously high heels.

He raises his glass of water to her and motions for her to sit down on the stool. "I don't know about the lyrics, but the tune definitely hit all the sixes."

Her hazel eyes twinkle as she slides into the seat beside him, the glass loop earrings jingling with the action. "Well, aren't you sweet? Leroy, be a darlin' and get me the usual." She levels a thoughtful stare through her veil. "What brings you to Mindsight? Aside from the obvious."

"How would you know I haven't gone here before?"

"I'd remember anyone wearing a mask that daring." She flutters her eyelashes at him.

Dante knows when he's being flattered into complacency. That doesn't stop him from feeling pleased at the words of a pretty woman. "And what is your name, Miss?"

"I'm afraid I can't say. Club policy and all, as the boss insisted." _Strange_ , he thinks, _considering that if they were so concerned about protecting their staff's identities they might have made them wear masks instead._

"Shame," Dante says instead. "And I would've wanted to call you something other than songbird."

"People call me whatever they like," she says. "That doesn't mean I answer to every single thing they call out."

Dante also knows when he's being evaded. He summons up a polite tone then, shifts into a less threatening stance in his chair. "Well, what name do you usually answer to?"

The woman smiles, albeit hindered by the veil. "Gigi. Short for Gargoyle." Leroy hands her a Black Russian, the coffee content strong enough for the aroma to reach Dante.

"Dante Vale." Her gloved hand is small in his, but the shake was friendly.

"It suits you. Is it a real name, though?"

"You thought otherwise?"

She shrugs. "People come here and they put on their glad rags, put on their masks. Be someone else for a night." Her hand sweeps out, a contained gesture. "Fat cats put so much weight in their names that they decide to use another one to see how it feels."

On the dance floor, someone wearing a checkered half-mask performs a rather complicated-looking jive and slips, landing smack on his ass. The denizens laugh, and the sap joins in after a second, throwing his head back. With the special kind of determination accessible only to drunks, he gets up from the floor and continues dancing.

"Stage names, like yours." He cranes his neck and takes in the details of the club. The upbeat music, combined with free-flowing alcohol and gaslights placed in a pattern around the room- it seems like a fever dream. Dante thinks that if he were to look around hard enough, he'd find lotus flowers. "But why Gargoyle?"

"Because I'm a stone-cold bitch," Gigi replies, matter-of-factly. Leroy snorts behind her.

"Ain't that a truth." Gigi flips her hair throws a look over her shoulder, a reprimand which Leroy pretends to ignore but follows nonetheless, picking up the glass he was cleaning and moving to the other end of the bar to leave the two of them alone.

"Well, I'm guessing you'd need to be one to survive this crowd," says Dante.

"Oh no, baby grand. Not every survivor can be a professional menace to society like I am. Some of them are rich," she says.

"Somehow, I get the feeling that you mean a lot more than just charming people into staying here."

"And somehow, I get the feeling that you're more than just some high hat looking for praise from us working-class dames." Before Dante can protest, she stands up, the swanky black dress hugging her curves. "Now Mr. Vale-"

"Just Dante, please."

"Dante, then. By any chance, did someone named Lin Storm send you here?" He nods, surprised. She smiles faintly, as though there was a joke that Dante hadn't caught on yet. "Follow me, the boss is waiting."

It was all Dante could do to keep an eye on her as she expertly leads him through the crowd. He caught up to her as she leads him up the stairs, and into a curtained alcove. Gigi gestures for him to wait.

Dante barely had time to admire the view from the second floor when he hears footsteps. The yellow-eyed man from the door enters, followed by a grinning Gigi.

"Dante, this is the boss. Boss, this is Dante. You're all acquainted now," Gigi says. She turns on her heel and steps out. The yellow-eyed man scowls and closes the curtains.

"Dante Vale, at your service." He holds out a hand.

"Gar- Gareon," he rasps, accent thick. His grip is steady and firm. " _Sitoplé_ , sit down."

The leather creaks softly- worn, but silent enough to be considered a luxury. The proprietor is a local, Louisiana born-and-bred. Singers and other staff are all working-class citizens who, despite living in one the red-light district of New Orleans, get to have a job that doesn't screw them over. The Mindsight really is simple in its excesses.

 _And devious_ , Dante thinks, staring at the proprietor in front of him, gleaming yellow eyes betraying nothing but business. They don't have any flappers here, and despite the alcohol the costumers had some kind of privacy in contrast with the staff, making them traditional and enticing enough to lure even the most conservative to this illegal joint.

 _Still, there was no Zhalia here in the first place._

Dante summons up a lazy smile and starts to talk shop with Gareon, all the while thinking up ways on how he could get back at Lin, and praying to whoever's listening to make her date more awkward than it had to be.

* * *

Technically, nobody's allowed back in the ring during off-season.

Anybody who wanted to practice their punches would have to do so outside of the gym, either with their own sandbags, in an abandoned factory, or on other people. It wasn't allowed because if a boxer got wind that someone was practicing, then others would also storm in under the pretense of 'practicing' or 'watching their opponents' and since a concentration of five or more boxers in an area will always result in a bet, pretty much means that a fight will go on. An _unchaperoned_ fight, wherein anybody could be killed- and without the safety net of the flimsy permits and connections the boxing ring has, illegal and could result in a lot of unwanted deaths that irks the preppy bourgeoisie whose bets keep everybody happy.

And if the lams receive a noise complaint out of season, the ring will shut be shut down.

This doesn't mean that they'd have to _stop,_ per se, just that they'd have to _move_ to somewhere less legal. But that would take a lot of energy and effort which no one is industrious enough to do, so yes, technically, nobody is allowed in the ring during off-season.

But, technically, Caliban is Odysseus. In that he is Nobody. Not, Odysseus, with an all-important quest. God knows that he's had enough of those.

THUNK! The sandbag sways as two more punches follow. THUNK! THUNK!\

 _No_ , Caliban thinks. He's completely done with that mess. _There are other people who'll do that now._

He viciously delivers strike after strike. The sandbag chain creaks noisily enough that it takes Caliban a few seconds to hear the footsteps approaching. _Shit._

Cursing silently, Caliban moves to pack up his stuff. He thought he'd get to spend ten more minutes when he did the cursory glance around the area, but it appears he's been slacking off.

The door opens before he can take off his bandages. In steps a friendly face. "Relax, it's just me."

Caliban heaves a sigh of relief. "Dante, you ab-so-lute _douchebag_."

"Don't tell me you were afraid of doing something _illegal?_ " Dante wiggles an eyebrow.

Caliban rolls his eyes. "Blow off."

"Maybe later. Need a sparring partner?" Dante was already tugging an extra pair of bandages on his hands.

"You realize I was serious about not getting caught here?"

"The dragon at the doorway'll deter or distract anyone."

He aims a punch at Caliban's left flank in lieu of answering the boxer's raised brow. Dodging easily, Caliban steps back at a left-right pace, avoiding the other three punches Dante sends his way before aiming for Dante's throat.

"How'd you- _ugh_ \- convince her to help you?" Caliban asks, in the midst of bending to avoid a gut punch.

Dante grimaces slightly as Caliban lands a hit on his right shoulder. "I got razzed. She set me up with a dame from Mindsight, but it turned out to be an actual business call. The date was just a ruse," he says, obviously touchy about the subject.

Caliban could almost laugh if he weren't busy avoiding the man's punches. He smiles instead. His friend had actually met a pretty girl that he regretted not going home with. Caliban feels pity for the hard-boiled detective who had the saddest case of blue balls he had ever seen, pity which was soon erased by the knowledge that there were a lot of people who would gladly relieve Dante of it if he so much as gave an inch.

Reason number 5 as to why Dante Vale cannot have a significant other.

Being one of the most respected moral authorities in New Orleans means there's no time for personal shit. And even if there was, one couldn't exactly share details about his mostly-classified life to anyone. It helped- or didn't, either way, Dante's not getting any- that the man was young, and handsome, and the ward of one of the most esteemed businessmen in New Orleans. And him being raised to be a gentleman did not deter any of the attention.

Reasons number 11, 23, 4, and 25, respectively, as to why Dante Vale cannot have a significant other.

"Oh-hoho. Did you wear the eagle mask?" Dante's glare says all he needs to know. Caliban hoots. "Always knew I liked Lin. Ow!" Okay, now _that_ was going to leave a bruise.

Dante jumps back to avoid Caliban's retaliation. "She was actin' all balled up about it too, like she didn't have a damn clue about the whole thing."

A few more punches and the sparring session was over (Dante won, not holding back after the teasing, which- ow, his ribs…). Caliban asked the most pressing question.

"What are you here for, then?"

"Aside from paying a visit to a dear friend and esteemed colleague?" Caliban stares at him. "I need information that only you can provide."

"This isn't about Mindsight," Caliban not-asks, resignedly.

"No it's not. What do you know about the kidnapping on Kipperin street?"

"Lambert's kid, no ransom, technically a disappearance."

"Unofficially?"

Caliban runs a hand through his hair. "Off-record, the lams have listed it up as a lost cause, the ones behind the kidnapping are the Spirals, and the kid is gone."

"I already knew that," Dante says.

"That's all the talk going on here man, I'm sorry." Caliban holds his hands up. "That's literally all I can give you."

Dante sighs. "I know asking you this is hard."

"Damn straight. You know I got out for a reason."

"Yes, instead of gunning down people you're settling for punching them instead." Caliban opens his mouth to retaliate, but, upon finding no ground of the statement being false, closes it.

"Still, that's all there is."

Dante crosses his arms. "What do you really know?"

"Wait, why do you want to know?"

"A lot of heavy sugar is riding on this. Probably enough to find a cure for Metz."

Caliban lets out a low whistle. "That's… something."

Dante stares at him, unflinching. Caliban knows that look in his eyes. That look made him hesitate pulling a trigger on an easy and dangerous target _and_ got him out of hell and into a less troubling life, the kind of conviction that moves mountains and is sung about in praises.

That? That is the look of someone who'll fight death if he has to. Mostly found in sacrificial types, not that common in suicidal ones and it only, only belongs to those who love so deeply- in Caliban's dictionary- _insufferable heroes._

Reason number 1 as to why Dante Vale cannot have a significant other.

If the person was unfortunate enough to be saddled with this man, they'd need to constantly be in distress.

Caliban just hopes that whoever Dante ends up with, has a _backbone._

He takes a cursory look at the room. "You didn't hear this from me, or anyone else."

"Agreed."

"There's a lot of talk and bets going about in the rings, but most place that the kid is probably dead in a river inside a _breezer_. And the people who put him there? For sure aren't the Spirals."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Silence. "Thanks."

"Least I could do."

Dante shakes his head. "You don't owe me jack shit for that."

"I don't. But I need to feel like I do." Caliban shrugs, packing up his boxing gear. "Otherwise, what's the point of me living a new life if I didn't have a purpose?"

Dante doesn't say anything. He turns back to the door.

"Oh, and Dante, one more thing." Caliban drinks from a water bottle before jamming it back into his bag. "I, personally, think that the midnight killer is a ghost story." He slings his bag over his shoulder, heading for the locker room. "But it's one worth hearing out."

* * *

"Did the midnight killer get him?" is the first thing that comes out of Sophie's mouth once Dante enters the library. He glares, an action she ignores in favor of serving tea.

She could hit herself for sounding so desperate. A better, classier one would've been "how is the investigation going?", or "tell me he's safe". Anything but opening with _that_.

"No." Sophie can practically hear the invisible _not that I know of_ in there somewhere. She sits down on the pillowed chairs, just glad that Dante's one of the better investigators with actual manners and tact.

 _Speaking of…_ "Tea and biscuits. Take some, I insist. And do sit down," she says, watching as Dante walks around the area of one of the mansion's smaller libraries, "If anybody's got a right to pace around, it'd be me."

"Just checking for extra ears in the walls."

"Have you got any leads?" Sophie asks.

"I've all but reached a dead end. Everybody's convinced that this is the work of the Spirals but they're not exactly covert." He takes a sip of tea, because manners. "They work in secret, but their biggest plans are laid out for everyone to see. They like a spectacle." He takes another sip and stares out from behind Sophie, probably to see if there's anyone listening in behind her.

Rare are the times indeed that Sophie curses her intelligence and educated background. She can connect the dots all too well, and all too fast for her liking. "They're planning to kill him during the Mardi Gras celebrations," she whispers. "During my debut…"

"It won't come to that," Dante affirms. "We'll find him."

"But you don't have any more leads," Sophie point out.

Dante looks down at his teacup. " I have one left, but…"

"It's about the midnight killer and you don't know who has actual knowledge about it."

Dante raises an eyebrow. "That's a ghost story."

"And Lok just vanished into thin air."

"Fair point," Dante concedes. "What I know about the midnight killer is that apparently he's known to kill only in concentrated places, such as King Basilisk avenue, several ports, orphanages and the church. Nobody has ever seen him. He works alone, and despite the name, there hasn't been any evidence that he has killed people because there's no body to be found."

"And all of the midnight killer's victims are listed as high-profile missing persons in downtown New Orleans, and the only common thing about them besides frequenting the places you mentioned are a shady background."

Sophie sees Dante's interest grow. _Good_ , she thinks. _I know something he doesn't_. It was a good thing that she decided to continue her own investigation before hiring him. While she could've done all this work by herself, she couldn't have much time before Mardi Gras, especially now that Lucas has her under deep bodyguard detail. In fact, Lane and Dellix are just outside the doors, waiting for her to finish. She only hired Dante so that he can continue searching even when she can't. _And now…_

"I know someone who might shed a little light on your situation."

"Then why bother me about this when you could've done it all yourself?"

Sophie tries not to show disappointment at being found out. She cups her teacup, the searing heat earlier now just barely heating the porcelain surface. "It's not exactly a safe place for me to go to…"

Dante sighs. "Of course it isn't. Is this a reliable source."

"Yes."

"How so?"

* * *

"Yeah, I defected." Den says, rolling down the sleeve to hide the Bloodspiral mark on his forearm. "And yes, my brother's still in there. But I ain't teling you shit, no matter what Sophie says."

"And why is that?"

"Cops ain't never did a good turn for us." He wipes the sweat from his forehead, leans back on a stack of shipping crates all slick-like, the image of a juvenile dewdropper. "Why should I do _anything_ for them?"

"You're not doing them a favor," Dante says. He decides to nail him, on the one link that he is sure Den and Sophie share. "You're doing this for Lok."

The boy's eyes flash. _Bingo._ "What about him?"

"He introduced you and Sophie, didn't he? You three probably painted this town red. Breaking all kinds of rules, class, and social status, not to mention _curfews_. Probably taught Sophie not to be stuck up, which her family and friends would like to thank you by the way. And Sophie would've been the one to find you this job."

" _Lok_ found me this job," Den corrects. "Sophie wanted me to work with Mrs. Lambert in the bakery. If this is blackmail, you're shit at it."

"It's not blackmail. Do this for Lok, Den. He might still be alive."

"And if he isn't?" he asks, nonchalantly. "Look, I have a lot of work to do, this cargo isn't going to move itself, and the boss man said these were supposed to be in the warehouses yesterday. There's a buncha last-minute shipment tomorrow and we need the space."

Den balances a huge crate on his shoulder ad walks away. Despite his bony frame, the kid could carry some weight. No wonder the spirals hired him as a torpedo despite his young age. Dante picked up two crates and followed Den's surprisingly brisk walk. _Military?_

"Did I say you could follow me?"

"Oh sorry, I didn't know you'd wanted to lug all these heavy crates by yourself," Dante says, turning back on his heel. "I'd just put this back then, if it bothers you so much."

Den's eyes widen. "Okay, fine, carry them."

They walk in silence. On the return trip, Dante asks, "Why are you so sure that Lok isn't dead? You're not even the tiniest bit afraid?"

An icy glare was his answer.

It took another trip before Den begun to relax in his presence, and another one before he decided to speak up. "I know he's not dead."

Dante almost drops the crates. "Christ, kid, if you _knew_ then wh-"

"Nobody's supposed to know about it!" He whispers frantically, gesturing for Dante to keep his voice down.

Dante didn't pay them any mind. A couple of workers were still at the port, but all were too far away to hear whatever Den had to say. Aside from that, Lin was keeping a perimeter to make sure no one was snooping, and some of Dante's lookouts in the city were watching out for anyone who'd be likely to beat their gums on this matter.

They continue to load the crates back before Den looks to him. "Nobody's killed him. And he's safe for the time being."

"How do you know about this?"

Den looks around their surroundings. "The midnight killer left me a message. Said to keep my mouth shut, and to keep Sophie from doing anything rash, like _calling the lams about the situation_." This explains why he hadn't told Sophie, then. Dante stares at the kid, who probably has only an inkling of how bad the situation actually is.

Den glowers underneath his stare, looking very much like a petulant kid instead of a former gun for hire.

"Why would he be any safer with the midnight killer than the spirals? And how did you get the message?"

Den looks at him like he was the dumbass. "The spirals would've killed him in an instant. Lok was publishing something big, okay- he kept telling me and Sophie all about it one night. Next day I heard he's disappeared. That afternoon I took a leave from the docks and went to Mrs. Lambert, and when I went back there was a person waiting for me. Not the killer-" Den shakes his head as Dante opens his mouth- "no, but the killer's messenger, apparently. Said the spirals were out for Lok and his paperwork and that the midnight killer has him for the time being."

"That does not answer my first question."

Den scoffs. "Oh come on, even a dick like you ain't that unobservant. The midnight killer only goes after those who go after the protected sites, like Kipperin. _You strike, I strike_ policy."

The cogs were turning in Dante Vale's head. Since the killer had Lok, he only had to find him and get the kid, and then give him under the full protection of the Foundation, better than what any killer had to offer. It was about time Lok got handed his father's legacy, and it would do to keep him out of trouble. If only he'd done this in time.

"I owe you one, kid," Dante says before running away. Den's eyes widen at the prospect of getting an in with the big leagues.

He tries to school his expression into one of indifference, but the giddy look in his eyes- that of a child seeking approval- betrayed the whole façade. "What could you get me that I couldn't find for myself."

"I don't know." Dante shrugs. "Think about it. Ask Sophie where to find me."

* * *

The sun was almost setting, and Dante wishes that he had worn something warmer. In order to throw off any trail, he'd had to walk from the city all the way to the end tail of the river. The sweat was starting to cool off in the twilight chill, and it left Dante shivering.

Still, there was work to do.

This part of the river forked away from the one that led straight to the city limits, frequented only by amorous lovers, shady dealers, lost tourists, or all three at once.

There were no fresh tracks in the soil, which means that the place hasn't been gone to in the past few days. Most people were busy preparing for the Mardi Gras parade back in the city, and thus had no time for any tomfoolery in the woods.

Mournfully, he remembers the Foundation's own float, the one that Montehue and the others would've surely finished by now, and the crate of booze that their contacts from the harbor would smuggle out to the speakeasy during the festivities.

The slight wind chill shakes him back to the past, and the work at hand.

He can see a faint car trail in the track, visible even with the dimming lights. Indeed, just as Caliban had said it would, the tracks veered off straight to the edge of the river.

Den had said Lok is alive, and while Dante would take his word for it… he was still a kid. He cupped some water in his hands and frowned at the chill.

 _Shit_ , does he have to…

He has to. _Shit. Fuck. Damnit._

Sighing the same long-suffering sigh of the dramatic, Dante takes off his suit jacket, and laying it down on a patch of grass where he could easily grab it if he needs a quick getaway.

The familiar weight of the gun at his waist feels more real now, and he looks around to see if it was safe before removing the suspender straps from his shoulders.

It wasn't until he removed the second button on his shirt that he whirled hs gun at the treetops. "Who are you and what are you doing?"

"Are you really in the position to be asking those questions?" says a low voice. Amused. Maybe a woman? _What the hell._

"Man with a gun," Dante sing-songs.

"Not the only one," the voice- definitely a woman's- replied in the same sing-song. Dante can hear the faint crack of the safety turning off.

"You didn't answer me." It was darker now, but Dante's vision was still okay in the nightlight. He can make out a faint outline, sitting on a tree branch, but if he blinked the outline will blend into the background.

"Well, I _was_ enjoying the view, but then you stopped taking your clothes off and started pointing a gun at me." A soft rustling of leaves as she falls down the tree, narrowly missing the shot Dante took.

He lost sight of her. "Fucking-"

"Ah, ah, ah. You just gave away our position. And here I thought I'd get you all to myself," says the woman, who he still can't see. Dammit, how does one manage to stay quiet when hiding in the forest? No twig snapping, leaf crunching or anything.

"You have backup?"

"I don't have one. Unlike you and your friends down there in the river." Dante couldn't fire another shot without giving their position away, again.

"How about you come out, and we have a civilized talk?"

"Judging by the fact that you just tried to bump me off, I doubt this will be anything but civilized." A theatrical sigh. "But I'll come out. Try not to kill me, I'd hate for my last memories to be of the great Dante Vale being as experienced as a two-bit fish."

Dante considers this. "As long as you don't kill me, we have a truce."

"Big talk coming from the guy who fired first," says the woman, just as she steps out of the shadows. In the faint moonlight he could spy her outline… wearing trousers?

She says, "I wanted to make a scandalous fashion trend as well, but wearing short skirts is too mainstream," before Dante found out that he had spoken aloud.

From whatever light manages to enter Dante's eyes, he could see that the woman has, aside from wearing trousers, cut her probably-dark hair in a fashionable bob, and had a revolver in her right hand. She was wearing a domino mask, over dark brown or hazel eyes, he couldn't tell in this light.

Almost half-dressed and chilled, Dante is still unperturbed by the sudden events. "You know who I am, now state your name and address."

"Killer. First name, Midnight. And as for my address, I was rather hoping we'd end up at your place instead, but since you insist-"

"The Midnight Killer is a woman?" Dante says, taken aback. Women torpedoes weren't exactly rare, but they were not common, and anyone operating individually is unthinkable.

The Midnight Killer laughs, a soft purr of a sound. "The shock value is almost worth the sexism. Almost. Anyway, we aren't here to kill each other. We're both after who sent that," she points her revolver at the point where the tire tracks vanish into the riverbank, "and I have no qualms with you, so I propose we work together so I can get back to living my life." She dropped her voice an octave lower, persuasive. "Would you come with me, at least just for tonight?"

Moving past the initial shock, he registered three things: one, the midnight killer knew who he was, didn't consider him a threat and was offering to work with him; Two: she thought that Dante was going after Lok (which he totally was, until the point when Midnight entered and basically confirmed Den's assessment that Lok is safe with Midnight, and she's just playing dumb) and therefore did not need to be informed of Den's tattling; and third, and most importantly-

She was flirting with him.

Dante, with his sharp mind and intellect, processed this whole stream of information in the process of two very fast blinks.

Not missing another beat, he asks, "How can I be sure you won't leave me hanging?" He crosses his arms to further emphasize his point, and at the same time showing off the corded muscles of his toned arms.

What? He knows he's fit.

The midnight killer- Midnight, Dante resolves to call her- smiles a cat-like grin. It's strained due to the mask, but it's there, nonetheless. "Scratch my back, I scratch yours?" she says. "It's a long way down to the bottom of the river," she says, apparently non-sequitur.

She nods to the water, "I've already disposed of the witnesses, and that's less blood and paperwork out of your hands."

"Witnesses."

She shrugs. "One of them was a target of mine."

"Ah yes, these protected sites of yours."

"What of them?" Her features, or what Dante could make out in this light, were schooled blank as can be.

"I didn't know you killed for protection."

"If you must know, Mr. Vale," _and fuck if that didn't sound familiar_ , "I'm very protective of my territory. Besides," she continues, walking away from the river and back to the city, Dante's suit jacket in one hand and revolver in the other, "The world didn't need those scumbags anyway."

* * *

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